


Dark Eyes

by portal_penguin



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Naughtiness, Original Character(s), Romance, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portal_penguin/pseuds/portal_penguin
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot agrees to board the daughter of a notorious Russian mobster at his mansion and quickly finds himself catching feelings for her.





	1. First Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting to here! I hope you all enjoy my work...it's certainly something, although I'm not sure what!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald meets with Viktor, the notorious Russian mobster.

Pouring out a glass of red wine, Oswald Cobblepot stared down the table at the man seated across from him. From what he could assess, the Russian was a very rich man, yes, but no idea how to use his money, almost certainly as self-made man who was new to the world of organized crime. Noting the Versace suit, polished Rolex, and Italian leather shoes adorning him, he wondered how somebody with all these expensive accessories could still look cheap. Silently, he thanked his mother for instilling him with a spectacular sense of fashion at a young age. 

“Now, Viktor,” he started, folding his hands, “I do hope you're aware that my mansion isn't a hotel. I'm willing to room your daughter, but it will come at a hefty price.”  _ If he wants to prove he has money, let him prove it now, not through his stupid clothes,  _ he thought. 

Viktor flashed a shark-like smile, reaching into his pocket. “What, you think I don't have money?” he scoffed. “The stables back at my mansion are nicer than this.” Pulling a wad of bills out, he tossed the money down to Oswald, who reluctantly grabbed it, counting it out. 

“Well, I stand corrected,” he admitted, much to his chagrin. He wanted nothing to do with this arrogant man, or his presumably spoiled-rotten daughter. But what choice did he have? Refusing a room to the princess of a Russian mobster would certainly mean his death, and he wasn't going to give up his throne that easily, especially not after he had worked so hard to earn it. For now, he would swallow his pride and live with the little brat. Besides, he could always use her for leverage if things went awry. “Very well. She can stay. I will provide her with the utmost comfort, Viktor.” Laying on the charm, he hobbled over to him to shake his ring-encrusted hand.

“Hey, that's why they call you Penguin, eh?” he smirked. “You really got the limp, just like everyone says!” 

Oswald pressed his lips into a smile, almost breaking the skin where his teeth clamped down. “Yes,” he said, gripping the man’s fat hand far harder than necessary, “I’m afraid it’s become my moniker. Everyone talks about it? Funny. Funny how that precedes me more than my reputation.” He laughed dryly, trying not to tremble in rage. No matter what he did, how many people he killed, how far up the ranks he travelled, he’d always be known as The One with the Gimpy Leg or Fish Mooney’s Umbrella Boy. It infuriated and even hurt him on some level. 

“Easy, little penguin,” Viktor soothed. “I can see I’ve stepped on a nerve or two. Let me make it up to you, yeah? My daughter is performing in Swan Lake tonight, real big production. She’s been practicing for it all year. How about you come with me?”

“Oh, no,” he politely declined. “I couldn’t possibly do that. I wouldn’t want to be a burden, or--”

“Nonsense!” Viktor insisted. “Besides, you see my daughter perform. She dances beautifully!”

After a moment of thought, Oswald finally caved. “Well, I am a sucker for Tchaikovsky. I’ll ask Butch to grab my coat. May I ask what part she will be playing?”

Viktor laughed. “She’s the swan princess, Odette. My baby girl got the lead, because she deserves to be in the limelight. I had to pull a few strings to make it happen, if you know what I mean. You know how it is, these people got no respect at all.”

Oswald nodded, pulling on his coat. “Somehow, sir, I know exactly what you mean.” 


	2. A Swan and a Penguin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald has a little too much fun at the theater...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel like I should clarify as to why this story is marked explicit. There's gonna be some major smut...eventually. I just haven't gotten there yet. Thanks to those who have left kudos, it's encouraging me to keep going. Enjoy, lovelies!

The theater was filled to capacity with Gotham’s most elite aristocrats and socialites, and everywhere he went, he heard sharp whispers behind his back. As Viktor and him shuffled to their seats through the crowd, they were met with wide-eyed looks of fear, nervous smiles, and grim stares. It impressed Oswald how many people recognized him, even if they only knew him from the papers as the crime lord with the bad leg and funny clothes. Although he occasionally bemoaned his appearance, recognition was recognition, and he felt his chest swell with pride as he grinned. “Viktor,” he asked, “where did you say our seats were again?”

“I have my own private balcony booth. It's very comfortable, and very expensive. I’m sure you will enjoy it. I've stocked it with the finest wine, some of it over a decade old.”

Oswald repressed a groan at Viktor’s not-so-subtle brag. He had wine twice as old in his cellar, yet he would never boast about it so blatantly. It was in poor taste. “Oh, sounds delightful!” he chirped, fighting not to roll his eyes. “I can't wait to try it.” 

They ascended the staircase towards the balcony until they finally reached the top. Standing in front of the booth’s red curtain entrance were two bull-like  men dressed in all black suits wearing ear pieces. “Hey, fellas,” Viktor greeted. “I brought my friend Cobblepot here along for the evening! That gonna be a problem?”

Feeling their sharp eyes upon him from behind their sunglasses, Oswald shifted uncomfortably. Although Viktor had been friendly thus far, he was all too aware that his ally could quickly turn on him if the mood suited him. He’d heard plenty of stories of the brutality the Russian mob inflicted on their enemies, and many of the most horrific crimes were executed by the man standing besides him. However, he was sure the exact same thought had crossed Viktor’s mind that night. God knew he'd turned on people in order to earn his place, but what was stopping Viktor from doing the same?

_ Nonsense,  _ he thought to himself, putting his mind at ease.  _ He’d never risk sticking a knife in my back. I'm the king of Gotham. If he kills me, it'd be the end of his American endeavors...and the end of his daughter.  _ “Lovely evening, isn't it?” he offered the guards. “You're watching the show as well?”

The tallest one cracked a smile. “Of course. We wouldn't miss Ms. Katrina’s performance for the world, not after all the shit we did to make sure she got it.” 

“I’m sorry, who’s Ms. Katrina?”

Viktor groaned in exasperation. “I’m sorry, Cobblepot, I forgot to tell you my lovely daughter’s name! Her name is Katrina. How could I forget to tell you, after you so graciously offered her lodging?” 

Oswald thought the name sounded pretty, like the sound of silver chimes. It ran through his head like a catchy melody.. “Oh! It's not a problem. I guess I should have done my research! No need to apologize.”

The orchestra began the opening notes of the overture. “Oh, shit!” Viktor cursed “I knew I’d be late! I always am for these damn things. Boys, is Oswald cleared?”The two men exchanged glances and then quickly nodded, pulling back the curtain the reveal the two red velvet chairs. Oswald breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sirs.” he said, making his way inside. “I hope you enjoy the show! I know I certainly will.” 

Sitting down in the chairs, Oswald quickly scanned the stage for the lead of the show, trying to espie who would be sharing a house with him for the next couple of weeks, but he stopped looking when Viktor brusquely hit him on the shoulder, pointing to the dancer in the middle of the stage. 

“You see her? There she is, the one on center stage. She’s beautiful! Jesus, she looks just like her mother, rest in peace.” 

Beautiful didn’t begin to describe the woman upon the stage. Katrina, dressed in her white, feather-adorned costume, looked like some sort of strange angel to Oswald, like something that wasn’t allowed  to exist in a city as dirty and cruel as Gotham. As she flitted about the stage, he noticed her long, slender legs, how they exuded strength, and yet managed to look graceful. Slowly, his eyes travelled upwards to the curve of her hips, which were surprisingly ample for a dancer. He swallowed hard, trying not to oogle too much of her too fast, as though the very image of her might make him drunk with lust. “She dances wonderfully, Viktor,” he said. “It’s truly an honor to watch her perform.”

For the first time that evening, he wasn’t speaking out of flattery. Watching her perform was sheer art. She herself was art, as if she had been sculpted by a master of the Italian Renaissance. For as pale and marble-like as her skin was, there was a stunning flush of pink upon her body as she exerted herself. As the show drifted into the second act, Oswald couldn’t help but to drink more and more of the wine Viktor kept offering him. The more he indulged, the more began to grow drunk, and his imbibing made his eyes wander to parts of Katrina that his normal, polite self would never wander. They traced the heaving curve of her bosom, the way her plush, red lips let out quick gasps of air as she leapt across the stage, and he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to more lewd places. Would she make the same lovely little gasps while fucking, would her whole body glow as deliciously pink as she came?  He silently thanked God that the theater was dark and Viktor couldn’t see the lustful smirk sliding across his face. 

Almost as quickly as it began, the show was over, and the crowd erupted in applause. “Bravo, Katrina!” Viktor yelled as he stood up. “Bravo, darling!”  

Oswald attempted to stand up and cheer as well, only to fall back down to his seat immediately. Covering his face in embarrassment, he laughed in spite of himself. It had been ages since he had been that drunk. His face felt feverish, but he couldn’t distinguish if it was from the wine or from imagining Katrina in various positions. He laughed even louder as he thought of how oblivious Viktor was to his dirty little thoughts.

“Cobblepot, are you...drunk?” Viktor asked. 

The look of concern on his face only made him laugh harder. “I’m sorry, Viktor.” he finally said, after clearing his throat. “I am so... _ wasted _ .” He giggled, having never used that word before. Everything felt like it was tickling his skin. Were there two Viktor’s now? “Viktor,” he slurred. “I didn’t know you had a...twin. He looks...just like...” His vision became even fuzzier as he slowly faded into a blackout.

“Jesus Christ, someone can’t handle their liquor.” Viktor muttered to himself. “Hey boys, a little help here? Cobblepot’s drunk as hell and just passed out. Help me get him to the car.” The two body guards obliged and lifted Oswald over their shoulders, and as they hauled him outside into the cold winter’s night, they heard him hiccup something about a beautiful swan and an ugly penguin. They shrugged him off and tucked him into the back seat of the limousine, only imagining how terrible his hangover was going to be. 


	3. Plaything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald finally meets the swan, Katrina.

The next morning, Oswald Cobblepot awoke in his bed with one of the worst headaches he had ever encountered. As his eyes fluttered open, he winced and groaned in pain as he was meet with the afternoon sunlight. Stumbling over to the purple satin curtains, he quickly pulled them shut, checking the time. “It’s already one?” he muttered. Apparently, he had spent most of the day curled up in bed, although he didn’t remember ever going to bed. The last thing he remembered was vomiting in the limousine on the way home. He felt embarrassed that he had let himself get so far out of control.  But, moreso, he felt if he didn’t get ibuprofen immediately, he may pass out again. 

Shuffling outside his bedroom to the kitchen, his nose picked up the scent of fresh brewed coffee in the air and...pancakes?  _ That must be Butch making me breakfast.  _ He deviously laughed to himself, thinking of how domesticated the manservant had become ever since he brainwashed him. It was almost adorable. But then he heard something different: the voice of a woman, singing to herself in a gentle voice. “Oh, he’s even listening to music,” he said aloud. “How quaint.” He pushed the door to the kitchen open. “Butch,” he said, without looking up, “you really didn’t have to do all this. It’s sweet and all, but I don’t think I’ll be eating much, considering I’m very--” He stopped, nearly choking on his words as he was met by the swan from last night. 

“You’re hungover, right?” Katrina asked him with a coy smile. 

His tongue suddenly felt too large for his mouth as he struggled to answer her. There she was, standing before him, in his own kitchen, nonetheless. The woman who had seemed like a beautiful dream was suddenly there before him, offering a cup of coffee and breakfast. “I...uh...s-so you’re Katrina?”

Taking a seat at the breakfast nook, Katrina laughed. “I take it you’re Oswald? Sorry we didn’t get properly introduced. We were supposed to meet last night, but from what I heard, you weren’t in the best shape for introductions...” 

His cheeks blushed a bright shade of crimson. “No, I certainly wasn’t. My apologies, Ms. Katrina. I feel as though I’ve made myself look like, for lack of a better word, an ass. It won’t happen again.” 

“Oh, Oswald, hush,” she soothed, motioning for him to take a seat with her. “You were drunk. It happens. I was drunk last night too! I may be a ballerina, but us dancers are actually the heaviest drinkers.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Absolutely!” she said. “The emotional trauma of being yelled at in French by bitchy 90-year-old women for years on end is enough to drive anyone to drink!” 

Oswald noted that Katrina, despite being Russian, actually had an American accent, which was curious to him. “If you don’t mind me asking, you have an American accent. I suppose I thought you’d have the same accent as your father. Did you grow up here?” 

Katrina rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I did. Daddy made sure I got the best education, and it just so happened that the best education also happened to be a boarding school. How convenient for him...”

“No,” he nodded, “I know the feeling. My mother made me attend boarding school as well...it wasn’t a good school, but it put a roof over my head. The people there were possibly some of the cruelest human beings I’ve ever meet...” he quickly stopped himself before he went into too much detail. “But I digress.” 

“Sounds like we’ve both had a rough life, Mr. Cobblepot.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, drinking their coffee, enjoying the company of one another, Oswald enjoying the companionship of a beautiful woman. Clearly she had had a long night as well. The stage makeup was streaked across her face, dark circles ringed her chocolate eyes, and the pink seemed drained from her skin. Not that any of this marred her exceptional looks; they only served to enhance them. Somewhere deep inside him, the lustful creature from last night stirred, causing a warmth to spread through his body. He longed to reach out across the table and grab her pretty throat, pinning her down, visciously kissing her. The image of her screaming his name as he thrust into her burned inside his head, and his face burned red. 

“What are you smiling about, Oswald?”

Quickly, he cleared his throat. “Nothing! Nothing at all...I was just...thinking is all.”  _ Thinking about how long I have to wait until you’re mine.  _

Katrina tilted her head, intrigued. “And what, may I ask, were you thinking about, sir?” 

Perhaps he was just imagining it, but he thought he heard a daring, provocative undertone in her voice. “It’s nothing, really,” he continued, testing the waters. “Nothing that would interest you, anyways.” 

“Oh yeah? Try me. Because I think I know what you’re thinking.”

His breath caught in his throat, like a schoolboy caught doing something very naughty. “No, you don’t know anything. I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular.”

Katrina laughed and twirled a piece of her auburn hair between her fingers. “Bullshit! You’re such a little liar! I know what you want, Oswald. You don’t have to be coy about it. You want to see my breasts, don’t you?”

If he felt like he was choking before, he almost certainly was suffocating now. Forcefully, he let out a laugh. “I...well, no. YES. No, I mean yes, I just...this has never happened to me...? He internally slapped himself.  _ Stupid! Stupid! Now she’s going to think you’re a virgin! _

“Breathe, little penguin,” she giggled. “You think you’re the first man to want me? Why do you think I wore this pretty little number.”

Suddenly, he was acutely aware of her ensemble. A skimpy, black lace bra with ties closing the front, allowing her perfect pink nipples to barely show. It was barely holding up her bountiful breasts, which seemed so much larger than they did last night on stage. An erection grew under his trousers, and he groaned as he rubbed his hand against it.

Katrina leaned in and whispered in his ear. “They’re all for you, baby. I want you to play with them and make me moan like the dirty little slut I am. Go ahead, Oswald, my love, fuck me like I’m your plaything!”   
The alarm blared in his ear, causing him to shoot up in his bed, panting. He was covered in sweat, and something wet and sticky was on his pants. “Goddamn it!” he yelled, throwing the alarm clock across the room. It was at this moment that he made a vow to himself, a vow he had made many times before: he was going to get what he wanted. Katrina would be his, no matter what the cost. 


	4. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting all touchy-feely in this chapter, folks. Oswald comes up with a plan of action for seducing Katrina, but things don't go exactly according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos! I love all of you and hope you continue to enjoy my little project. Cheers!

After spending most of the day in his room trying to conjure up a plan getting himself presentable, Oswald finally meandered out of his room. He had reached a conclusion: his lustfulness would only lead to his downfall, and he was going to treat Katrina the way she deserved to be treated. Not like an object, but rather as a person. Certainly, he still felt a strong desire towards her, but if he truly wanted her, he was going to play his cards right and get to know her the right way. Patience was, after all, his strong suit, and he would play the waiting game however long it took to make her his. 

_ Perhaps we could discuss our lives over a bottle of Syrah and dinner,  _ he thought. Upon feeling his stomach lurch at the thought of wine, however, he quickly decided that wasn’t the best idea. “Butch,” he asked his manservant, “where is Ms. Katrina? Did she come in last night?” 

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “I believe she’s in the guest bedroom, since I  haven’t seen her around anywhere else. Guess she’s tired from last night’s performance. Should I go wake her up?”

“No, no, I’ll see too it. I have something to discuss with her.” 

He made his way down the hall, checking himself in the mirror before he knocked on her door. He winced at his reflection. Starring back at him were two bloodshot eyes ringed with puffy, purple splotches. Below them, his nose seemed more crooked than usual. He rubbed it, as if that was going to help, trying his best to smile, but even that looked hideous. Were his teeth always that yellow? Oswald took out a comb from his and fretted with his hair, but the more he handled it, the more it looked like an oil slick.

A lump grew in his throat as he tried to speak. “Hello, Ms. Katrina,” he practiced. “I...um...I hope I didn’t wake you up. I was  just wondering if I could--” his voice cracked, and he felt his fists clench. Why did he suddenly sound so pathetic? Had he always sounded so weak? He tried again, this time, trying to lower his voice. “Hello, Miss, I hope I haven’t disturbed you. I was hoping you would--” he floundered for the words, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, he stood staring at his gaping reflection. 

“Why am I even doing this?” he whispered to himself. He felt like an idiot. Katrina would never like him, or want him, or even get near him. She’d never even laid eyes on him, and what would she see when she did meet him? Probably avert her eyes and try not to laugh, as so many people did.  _ Who could blame them? _ Oswald thought. Many times in his life, he’d felt ugly, but never as ugly as he felt now. Tears welled in his eyes and flowed down his ruddy face onto his shirt. 

Quickly, he began to limp back to his room, but he was stopped by a voice. “Hello? Wait, are you Mr. Cobblepot?” 

He froze in his tracks. It was a woman’s voice. Sniffing and wiping his face with his sleeve, he turned around, shakily. “Yes, that’s me.” His voice sounded even worse now, hoarse from crying. He dared not look up from his shoes, lest Katrina notice his tears. 

“Oh, thank God! I’m so glad I found you! The hot water in my shower isn’t working, and I absolutely refuse to use cold water. Could you lend me a hand?”

Shaking his head, he replied. “No, I wouldn’t be of any use. I have people to do that sort of work for me. Best I get Butch to do it. Take care, Miss. Enjoy your stay.” Limping off again, he was stopped when he bumped into her. Startled, he looked up into her face.  _ Oh God _ , he bemoaned,  _ she’s even taller than me _ .

“Why are you trying to run away from me?” 

Blinking rapidly in surprise, he tried to answer her. “I...I left the kettle on in the kitchen.”

“Liar.”

Oswald gritted his teeth. All he wanted was to leave, to go hide in his room. Yet here he was, being interrogated, her dark eyes burning into his. It infuriated him. “I wasn’t running from you,” he said. “I don’t know where I was going, but I wasn’t running from you.”

Katrina’s lips pulled back into a sly grin. “Oh my God. You were crying, weren’t you?”

Blood rushed to his face and his body trembled with annoyance. “No! I was not crying!”

“Yes you were! Your eyes are all red and puffy! I thought I heard something. Why were you crying?”

His lips pursed as he seethed. “It’s none of your business.”

“So you admit it? You were crying?”

_ Damn her _ , he cursed to himself. “Yes, perhaps I was. Perhaps I wasn’t. Either way,” he shrugged, “what difference does it make to you? Why do you care about something you couldn’t possibly care about? The point is moot. I’ll go get Butch to fix the water. Good day, Miss Katrina.” 

As he walked away, he heard footsteps following him. “Mr. Cobblepot, I heard you practicing your lines. You wanted to ask me something, and then you started crying. Please, just tell me what you wanted.” 

His heart sank into his stomach. There he was, completely caught by the woman he thought he’d never even speak to. Coughing to clear his throat, he turned to face her, and somehow, when he truly looked at her, she didn’t feel as intimidating. Katrina’s face was soft and kind, and her brown, messy curls and old pyjamas made her look approachable, like a human. Less like a dream and more like a reality. He took a deep breath. “Miss Katrina--”

“You can just call me Katrina,” she interrupted. 

“Katrina. What I wanted to ask you was if you would...perhaps...like to join me for dinner this evening? You don’t have to go, of course! But...I would greatly enjoy your presence, considering we haven’t been properly introduced.”

Pausing a moment to consider the proposition, she folded her arms. “That’s what you were crying about? Asking me to dinner?”

Oswald sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “It was a bit more than that, but I’d rather not talk about it. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I hope you don’t think any less of me.” 

Suddenly, Katrina reached out and grabbed Oswald’s hand, causing him to gasp. “I would  _ love  _ to go to dinner with you. I don’t mean to offend you or your staff, but you didn’t leave anything to eat in my bedroom, and I’m starving! Please, feed me before I die.” 

“Oh God! I’m so sorry! You must be famished!” Oswald said. “Well, uh...so it’s a yes then? What time shall we meet?”

“I don’t care, just sometime soon!”

“Very well. How about six this evening? Would that work?”

“That’s fine by me, Mr. Cobblepot.”

Grinning ecstatically, he laughed. “Excellent! This is going to be phenomenal! I hope you enjoy Italian food! There's this lovely little spot right around the corner from here. You're going to adore it! And Katrina,” he added.

“Yes?”

“Please, call me Oswald.”

She smiled sweetly, sending butterflies through his belly. “Okay, Oswald. See you at six! I look forward to it.” 

After she was out of earshot, he let out a loud sigh of relief. Again, he looked at himself in the mirror, talking aloud. “Oswald Cobblepot,” he said, this time so Katrina couldn't possibly hear him, “you're going to do this. You can do this. You're the king of Gotham. Everything is yours.” Without further ado, he straightened his tie, brushed off his suit, and walked downstairs to await his date. 


End file.
